No True Believers

by Rabiah York Lumbard

  Like everyone else pouring out of Franklin, he’d yanked out his phone. He was in a hurry, too. I watched as he jabbed at it and brought it to his ear—an actual call. Should I just let him go? Ironically, without the crutches, I was slower now. Mrs. DLP’s sleeve was much more comfortable, of course….

  No. I would do this. I owed him.

  Steeling myself, I snaked my way through the crowd. By the time I caught up with him, he’d reached the driver’s-side door of the Turner family pickup truck. Luckily, he didn’t get in. He was still talking. I hung back to give him some privacy. I hated when people (i.e., every single member of my family) eavesdropped on my conversations. But he spoke so loudly that I couldn’t help overhear.

  “No. I am n-n-not getting involved,” he said, stuttering slightly.

  Sounded heated. I backpedaled a step. Maybe now wasn’t the best time after all.

  “It wasn’t like that.” He took a long breath. “Bakkioui was in trouble. It’s over.”

  Bakkioui? I froze in place. I was…Bakkioui. For a second I wondered if he was talking about someone else. But what other Bakkioui would have been in trouble?

  “Of course I know!” he hissed, agitated. “If anything, Dad—just listen. I know what I’m doing.” Kyle winced. He held the phone away from his ear, his body tense, and then brought it back. His free hand tapped nervously against his pants.

  “Yes, sir,” he said, his voice quieter. “No…yes, yes, sir. Right away.”

  He jammed his phone into his pocket.

  A school bus behind me started its engine. Instinctively I ducked down behind the nearest car, a tiny VW Bug; I didn’t want him to think I was spying. (Because I was.) Bad move. A sharp twinge shot through my newly recovered knee, so I kept going, plopping down on my skinny butt. As the pain subsided, I held my breath. Had Kyle turned? Had he seen me? I waited while the cars nearby roared to life along with the bus. I couldn’t stay hidden for long. As carefully as I could manage without putting undue weight on my knee, I used the VW door handle to hoist myself up.

  Only then did I sigh in relief. The truck was already pulling out of the parking lot.

  I leaned against the hood of whoever’s Bug this was, its blue metal hot from a day in the sun. I tried to make sense of what the hell had just transpired. Why had he been so defensive? And was he really talking about me? He must have been, but why the last name only? No one did that, except for Ms. Wallace at roll call in gym class. And, of course, Barbie and the Bot…but they did it to dehumanize, to emphasize the foreignness of the sound, to stamp me as the enemy—

  “Enjoying the view?”

  I jumped back. Amir.

  “Jesus, you scared the shit out of me.”

  He laughed. “I realize you hold me in high esteem, but Isa? A bit much, don’t you think?”

  “Ha, ha,” I grumbled. My legs were still wobbly. I leaned against the hood again. “Your dad’s right. You’re a real comedian.”

  “And awesome and handsome and profoundly humble. So, mind if I ask why the sudden fascination with Mrs. Owens’s car? You want me to get rid of my Jetta, right? You’re trying to send me a message that my ride is an embarrassment?”

  I immediately backed away from the hood. I had no idea it belonged to Mrs. Owens. Just what I needed: her to catch me and suspect I was up to no good. “I was—um, watching Kyle.”

  “Clocking the neighbor who valiantly rescued you?” Amir teased. “Should I be jealous?”

  He was trying to snap me out of whatever funk I was in, to get me to laugh, but I was shaken. “I don’t know how valiant he is after all.”

  Amir’s smile faded. “What do you mean?”

  I replayed the incident for him in real time: explaining exactly what happened, and exactly what I heard. Word for word. When I finished, he sighed.

  “Salma, come on.”

  “Come on, what?”

  “You know what I think?” he asked gently. “Kyle’s dad is probably worried Michelle and Chris are going to find him and beat the shit out of him. I’d be worried about the same thing in Mr. Turner’s shoes. No wonder he was pissed off. He doesn’t want his son, the new guy in school, playing hero.”

  I frowned. That was a very good point. It was also one that hadn’t occurred to me.

  “Fine. But why did Kyle call me Bakkioui then, like they did? Isn’t that strange?”

  “He’s a military kid. It’s probably second nature.” Amir took my forearms, spinning me toward him, so we were face to face. “How about this? From now on, nobody else gets to rescue you except me, okay? It will make life much less complicated.”

  I found myself smiling back. Maybe I’d overreacted. It wouldn’t be the first time. Exhausted, I rested my head against his chest and closed my eyes.

  “Wanna hang out at my house for a while?” he murmured. “We never got to finish our Edward Norton marathon. You’ll have to listen to me practice, though.”

  “Practice for what? Yasmin did her presentation today….” I felt another pang of guilt. I still hadn’t told Amir how beautiful his piece had sounded on my headphones.

  “This is for the gig,” he clarified.

  I laughed. “Please don’t use that word,” I said.

  He laughed, too. “Fine. For my epic world-debut oud performance at the Black Box with Public School Funk-a-Delic.”

  “Much better.” I leaned back and looked up at him. “Wait, Mr. Epstein’s band is really playing at the Black Box? That’s so cool.” This time I wasn’t poking fun at Amir’s guru; I meant it. The Black Box was one of those old-school DC clubs, legendary for breaking bands that went on to stardom or at least cult status. Maybe Mr. Epstein wasn’t as dorky as I’d made him out to be. No, of course he was. You only had to look at his egregious wardrobe choices. It was one of the reasons I secretly liked him.

  “So is that a yes?” Amir asked, his brown eyes filling mine.

  I sighed and slumped back against him. “I can’t. I have to wait for Hala and Yasmin. Dad’s taking Titi to a dentist’s appointment. You don’t know how lucky you are that your sisters are older.”

  * * *

  —

  As soon as I got home I headed straight for the sofa. In another hour my sisters would shatter this beautiful silence. My eyelids closed instantly. My body seemed to melt into the pillows. I hadn’t realized how sore my knee was from my little hiding stunt in the parking lot until the weight was removed and I could stretch my leg straight. The pain went away….

  After God knows how long—it felt like an instant—I jerked awake. I glanced at the clock: quarter to four. No sign of my sisters. The house was eerily silent. After rubbing my eyes, I sat up and looked at the hall tree. The only bag that hung from the hooks was mine. Now I was wide awake.

  “Hala?” I shouted. “Yasmin?”

  Nothing. Not a peep. Ignoring my sore knee, I checked every room in the house. Including my own. Then I messaged Mom. Hala and Yasmin not home yet. Change of plans?

  Her text bubble instantly loaded: No. They should be there. No after school.

  By the time Mom arrived home twenty minutes later, I’d moved beyond regret to worry. I rushed to the front door. “I’m so sorry, Mom. I didn’t mean to fall asleep. I was just so tired and—”

  “Shh.” She rested her computer bag down by the hall tree and rushed to me. “Hon,” she said, lifting my chin. “You did nothing wrong. Nothing. Understood?”

  I nodded and bit my lip, but looked away. “But what if they came home and then left? Or what if they never even got to the front door or onto the bus—”

  “Stop,” she said. “I called the school. I spoke to the bus driver. Your sisters were on it. They’re probably at the playground. It’s a gorgeous day. I’m sure they lost track of time.”

  I nodded, feeling my throat tightening. If Mom could hold it to
gether for my benefit, I could hold it together for hers. She removed her work flats and slipped on her Chacos.

  “And you know how convincing Hala can be,” she added, forcing an easygoing tone. “If they are not at the playground, they’re at a friend’s.”

  Maybe they were. Hala was annoyingly clever, and Yasmin would go along with whatever scheme she cooked up. Both also played their cuteness to their advantage to get away with just about anything. Like, for instance, shirking schedules. Going to the playground with no advance warning. Driving me crazy with some excuse they would no doubt make up on the spot…

  I heard Dad’s car pull into the driveway.

  Mom headed for the door. “Stay here with Titi. Dad and I will canvass the neighborhood. You’ll see. It’ll be fine. Just fine.”

  Two “fines,” I thought. She was clearly talking to herself more than she was talking to me. Nothing felt fine about this. But I kept quiet.

  * * *

  —

  One hour and fifty-three excruciating minutes later, I decided to stop looking at the clock. Even cuddling with the cat wouldn’t take the edge off. I’d been lying on my back in the cushioned bay ever since Dad and Titi had arrived, Thomas on my stomach. I’d imprisoned him there. As Minister of Calm, his presence was sorely needed. But the longer the wait, the weaker Mom’s theory about Hala and Yasmin was becoming. My mind was on an endless treadmill of “what-ifs,” none of them good. Especially now that I had seen Michelle’s Instagram challenge.

  What if someone took it seriously? What if something really bad happened?

  I squeezed Thom. Hard. He squeaked in disapproval. I finally released my death grip, and he jumped off my stomach, making his way toward Titi. She sat cross-legged on the floor clutching her small tasbih, her string of prayer beads. Ninety-nine in total, each bead corresponds to the ninety-nine names of God. One by one, they fell from Titi’s grasp. I wondered if she was thinking what I was thinking: One of God’s names is al-Waajid, the Finder. God would find them and bring them home, wouldn’t He?

  The front door swung open. Titi and I jumped up.

  Mom and Dad stepped inside. Empty-handed. Grim.

  “Anything?” Mom asked.

  I shook my head.

  She glanced at the clock, and my eyes instinctively followed. Quarter to six. Her face twisted with agony. Without a word, she and my father headed straight for the kitchen phone. I guess they were moving to Plan B: Treat this like the emergency it was. Phone the police. Put out an Amber Alert. Plan C wasn’t too far off: Panic. I’d already beat them to it. I stood up. My knee buckled, and in that instant, the room spun. It felt as if the entire world were suddenly squeezing my waist. I’m going to vomit. Titi gaped after me as I clutched my gut and bolted for the bathroom, slamming the door shut.

  False alarm. Nothing came up but bitter bile.

  I ran the faucet and splashed cold water on my face. After that I rinsed my mouth, trying to ignore my haggard reflection.

  * * *

  —

  When I finally returned to the living room, Titi was standing at the window, weeping. I wanted to console her, but I couldn’t. I couldn’t even look at her. I felt oddly detached, as if this were some dream from which I couldn’t shake myself awake. This couldn’t be happening. Not to us. Not to my sisters.

  “Ya’llah, Salma Dihya. Salma Dihya…ya’llah.”

  She clapped her hands and turned to me, teary eyes wide and elated. My breath caught. She was smiling. She wept with joy, not fear. I hobbled to her side and nearly collapsed; there, outside, was the sight I’d longed for. My sisters. Relief washed over me. They weren’t alone. Mrs. Turner, holding Drexler on a leash with one hand, led Hala and Yasmin across the street with the other.

  “Mom! Dad!” I shouted, limping slightly to the door. “They’re home!”

  The entire family burst outside. I stood there for a moment at the threshold of the open doorway, watching. My parents went straight for the girls and swept them up in hugs; Titi went for Mrs. Turner. After clutching Mrs. Turner in a tight embrace, Titi kissed her hands and mumbled Lord knows what in Riffian.

  “Oh, hello, good evening,” Mrs. Turner mumbled stiffly. She managed an uncomfortable smile. Drexler, in contrast, was wagging his tail vigorously.

  “Thank you, thank you, missus,” Titi mustered in her heavily accented English.

  Our neighbor drew away from my grandmother, clutching the leash with both hands behind her back. Mom and Dad finally let my sisters go. Hala and Yasmin had been silent; only I could see their faces were streaked with tears. I stepped forward. Mrs. Turner turned to Mom and Dad.

  “Hi, you must be the Bakkiouis. I’m Kate Turner, your neighbor. I found your girls when I was walking Drexler in the woods around back.” She squared her shoulders and tightened the length of the dog’s leash. “Took a bit of cajoling, but I finally got them to come with me. Hope that’s all right.”

  In a rush of relief and gratitude, my parents spoke over each other, a near-hysterical jumble. Then they both laughed. After a clumsy pause, Mom reached forward and extended a hand.

  “Thank you for finding my babies. They were…in the woods?”

  “Yes.” Mrs. Turner shook hands quickly and let go, clutching the leash again. “Pretty far in, too. They didn’t tell me why. I’m just glad they’re all right.” She was already backpedaling across the lawn. Clearly she just wanted this little incident—whatever it was—to be over. “And please, no need to thank me. I know you would have done the same for my boy. Have a good night.” She turned toward the street. Drexler’s collar jangled as he shook himself and followed.

  “Please, why don’t you come in,” my mom called after her. “I can make you some tea. It’s the least I can do.”

  “Oh, no thanks!” she replied without looking back. “That’s awfully kind of you, but I’m already running behind schedule. Kyle Sr. likes his meals right on time.” She let out a little high-pitched laugh. “It’s easier that way, you know—early to bed, early to rise. Next time, maybe.” She waved goodbye over her shoulder and hurried into Mariam’s house, shutting the door behind her and Drexler.

  Their house, I reminded myself. The Turners’ house.

  Amir was right. I’d been foolishly paranoid this afternoon. I made a promise to myself right then and there that I would thank Kyle no matter what, even if I had to go over in person tomorrow.

  Meanwhile, Mom had turned to the girls and assumed the position: arched brows, hands on hips. An epic tsunami of a scold was coming their way, and no matter how high Hala turned up the cuteness or how sad Yasmin pretended to be, nothing would stop it.

  “What in the world were you thinking?” she barked. “We spent three hours looking for you. Three hours!”

  Dad gently whispered something in her ear. She nodded begrudgingly and turned back toward the house. I sighed, wanting to chew them out myself. On the other hand, at least they were home….

  “My little pumpkins.” Dad stepped forward. There he went, buttering them up. Something about his accent and the hint of French could charm anyone, especially his girls. “You are not in trouble. No, no. Just tell us what happened. S’il vous plaît?”

  Yasmin opened her mouth, but started to cry. Mom stopped and glanced over her shoulder.

  “Let’s get back inside,” Titi said. “Where we belong,” she added pointedly.

  * * *

  —

  At the dinner table, during iftar—between Yasmin’s heaving sobs and Hala’s halting additions—parts of the story finally emerged.

  It all started right before final period, the big moment: History with Mr. Peck. Yasmin was so proud of her “Best All-Time American” poster that she’d unveiled it in the hallway to show her friends. (I couldn’t blame her; she’d re-created in grays and blacks the classic 1965 photo of Muhammad Ali, standing in the ring
over Sonny Liston at the moment he won his second world championship. It was spectacular by any measure. I would want to show it off.) She was taking it out of her cubby when several boys crowded around her. They snatched it from her hands. Within seconds, her prized work was on the ground, crumpled and ruined.

  I kept glancing between Mom and Dad. Their faces were blank masks.

  “Is it completely destroyed?” Dad asked in a low voice.

  Yasmin was weeping again; she couldn’t answer. Hala left the table and went to the hall tree to retrieve the poster from Yasmin’s backpack. Or what was left of the poster. There was a jagged hole where Ali’s face had been. The famous quote, carefully stenciled in 1960s-style font, had been ripped in half and covered in dirty footprints. Float like a butterfly was illegible; Sting like a bee was missing completely. It was pitiful.

  “I chose that quote because of you, Salma,” Yasmin choked out. “After what happened. Because you love butterflies.”

  I shook my head and seethed. My left fist clenched, turning the flesh around my pinkie ring a bloodless white. I looked to Mom.

  “I’m so sorry,” she said, her lips quivering. “You don’t deserve this.”

  Yasmin wiped her nose. “I got scared. I mean, after what happened to Salma, I thought…I mean, I took Hala…” Her throat caught. She sniffed, unable to finish.

  “Where was Mr. Peck during all this?” Mom demanded.

  The girls shrugged.

  “Was he in the classroom?” Mom pressed.

  “I don’t know,” Yasmin finally answered.

  “What do you mean?” Dad asked.

  “I mean I don’t know,” she snapped.

  Mom drew in a sharp breath. “Don’t worry about that. We’ll be in touch with him. But why didn’t you come home? Why were you in the woods?”